


Green

by magebird



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, Emetophilia, Emetophobia, Gen, Medical Procedures, Post-Recall, THE POINT IS THERE'S VOMIT, Whump, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-16 19:31:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8114737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magebird/pseuds/magebird
Summary: An injury threatens what McCree has been relying on for years.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A world of thanks to froggyflan for a spectacular beta read on this mess (if you haven't read their fic what's wrong with you?), and a nasty nod to bellyrubbing for inspiration and cheerleading.

The thing about training was that it was supposed to be safer than testing things out in the field. Breaks were close at hand and plans could follow their steps in order-- one, two, three, fire. McCree could appreciate the benefits, and after the years honing their skills so far apart it was helpful to remember how to work with someone guarding your back.

It was interminable, though, and McCree couldn't help but fidget when he was forced to wait for a teammate to adjust this or calibrate that. Even with his hat, the sun was hot and direct, making sweat bead on his face. McCree sat against the west barracks building, soaking up what little shade he could despite the shortness of the shadows.

Reinhardt's mechanic was tinkering with something on his shield arm over on the other side of the football-pitch-cum-training-range. She was in jean shorts and a tank top, her hair tied on top of her head, and McCree considered again why he'd decided his outfit would involve essentially wrapping himself in a wool blanket. Sure, it kept the dust off, but was that worth it?

McCree flexed his prosthetic arm, the pistons in his shoulder letting out a faint hiss so familiar he could barely pick it out against the distant rush of the sea. He'd gotten the thing tuned up by one of the geniuses down in engineering and they'd taken the opportunity to look over the rest of him..

The metal plate extended from collarbone to hips, studded with a few large tubes that carried fluid from one portion to another. Two ports were embedded in his skin, one in and one out to circulate the fluid through him and then through the filtration unit that was built into the device. He’d paid a man to whip the substance up. Nanites and shit for a steady hand and faster healing. It had cost more than he should have been willing to pay to get it, but once the formula existed it wasn't hard to keep producing it and topping off his supplies.

Angela hadn't been happy, calling it everything but medicine, but it kept him too sharp to even consider rejecting it. Things had been clearer ever since he'd first plugged in. It was just like his arm, now-- a part of him that made him whole.

"Ah, excellent!" came Reinhardt's booming voice, and McCree lifted his head to see him flexing his shield arm, then lifting it to summon his barrier before dropping it again. "Much better!"

His mechanic grinned, giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder before heading back towards the air conditioned building she'd come from. How Reinhardt could survive the heat in that armor was a mystery, though McCree would have been willing to bet his suit had some sort of self cooling function to keep him from roasting.

"Back to work, then," Reinhardt said, turning to McCree and gesturing. McCree heaved himself up, trudging across the grass. His movement stirred the handful of other waiting combatants and they trickled forward. Genji was there, armed with a paintball gun and dressed in a red jersey to signify he was playing an enemy, but he was the only one on that team that McCree knew. The others were relatively new recruits, filling out the ranks as they got a feel for their own weapons and styles.

On McCree's team were Reinhardt and Lena, though she was wearing a blue jersey over her uniform and carried a paintball gun like Genji's. If she could keep from falling into habit, she was supposed to play the role of a simple foot soldier against the reds, though she'd already been zipping here and there in their last mock battle unintentionally.

McCree thumbed across the back of the replica pistol he was using. It was no Peacekeeper, but they couldn't risk live fire with so many greenhorns on the field, so it was just paintballs as well. His bandana was blue, a nod to his team.

Reinhardt was using his hammer as his weapon, though they'd lowered the intensity by quite a bit so that, while it would deliver a massive wallop, no one would end up with their skull splattered across the grass. He was supposed to be leaning mostly on his shield anyway.

McCree stepped into place next to Reinhardt, watching the half dozen folks on the red team assemble across from them. It was a simple face-off, nothing more, and McCree knew Winston was watching and recording from his lab.

As if on cue, Winston's voice crackled over a tinny speaker, telling them to prepare themselves. "On your mark," he said. "Ready... Start!"

With a spark of energy that made McCree's hair stand on end, Reinhardt's shield appeared in front of them, three paintballs splatting against it a foot from his face. McCree raised his pistol, aiming at one of the recruits still fumbling with her gun. It seemed a pity to knock her out so quickly but if she wasn't ready no true enemy would take pity on her. He fired and before he even heard a yelp he was scanning for the next target.

"Left!" Reinhardt called and Lena swung to fire a few shots at Genji and another red who were trying to circle around. There was no cover to give them an advantage, but that wasn't the point of the exercise. McCree backed up a few paces, falling in on Reinhardt's right to cover the flank in that direction.

Two of the recruits suddenly broke into a charge, clearly planning to bust through Reinhardt's shield and get him from behind. It would have been a solid enough tactic if they'd been able to distract him, but McCree saw Reinhardt's hand adjust slightly on his hammer and smirked. They were in for an unpleasant surprise.

He took another step, then Lena's yell made him turn. Genji laughed, and she pivoted with a scowl, bright green paint splattered across her torso. McCree started to lift his pistol to fire back, a sympathetic smile turning up the corners of his mouth, then--

WHAM

Something with the force of a truck slammed into his side and McCree felt himself lifted off his feet as metal buckled. The intensity of the flames from the back of Reinhardt's hammer was turned down, but the smell of burning fabric and hair suddenly became the most vivid thing in McCree's senses, bright in the engulfing white that conquered everything else. Breathing was impossible and the seconds stretched on and on until McCree hit the dirt and pain returned to his awareness in a rush.

If he'd had any air in his lungs he would have screamed, but he could only wheeze, everything growing empty as his body refused to breathe in. The stabbing pain in his stomach and ribs was all-consuming and he could sense nothing beyond it for several moment.

When he came to a heartbeat later, he curled his fingers in the grass, struggling to push himself up. There was someone shouting his name in a deep voice, but before he could process it or respond he felt a twist in his gut, then a rush from the base of his throat. Something wet and sweet poured out of him as he heaved into the grass, splashing across his clenched hand. It was bright green and as thick as egg whites, flecked with blood. It took McCree a second to recognize the fluid from the tubes that ran in and out of his stomach.

McCree would have said something-- maybe a curse or wry remark-- but all he could do was shudder as another mouthful of the fluid came out of him, dribbling down from mouth and nose over his jaw to soak his blue bandana. He had to gasp a painful breath in between spasms, vomiting again before Reinhardt was kneeling beside him, holding him upright so he wouldn't collapse into his sick.

"Lena is getting Angela now, Jesse, hold on--" The words were fuzzy and distant over the fog, and he could only let himself hang in Reinhardt's grip. Every few seconds the pressure would build and he found himself spitting up another load of the thick goop, shaking helplessly as his body contorted. There was only so much fluid in his system, though, and finally McCree drew in a shaky breath without instantly being wracked with heaves.

The world slipped away again, but the sharp agony of being lifted onto a stretcher and forced to lie flat made McCree wake, unable to fight back and keening. He didn't feel the prick of a needle, but this time the dark lasted for a long, long while.

\--------------------------

The infirmary was familiar enough that as he drifted back to consciousness, he felt more resigned than confused. The IV in the back of his hand itched and McCree could hear soft footsteps beyond the curtain surrounding his bed.

"Angie?" he asked, his throat raw and raspy. The footsteps paused, then a hand slid open the curtain and Angela stepped inside. As always, she looked frantic in a way that left her even more radiant than before.

"Good, I expected you to come round fairly soon," Angela said. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I oughta be pushing daisies," McCree said, letting out a sharp sigh. "What happened?"

"Reinhardt caught you on his backswing," Angela said gently. "Your injection system pierced your stomach and began to leak. It took quite some time to repair the damage."

As she spoke, she wrapped cool fingers around McCree's wrist to take his pulse. A little headache was building in McCree's neck and he looked down. His lower stomach where the system had been integrated with his body was wrapped in bandages and a frown twitched his mouth.

"So, how long before I can get it repaired? I got vials of the serum in my room if--"

"You will not be relying on that drug any longer," Angela interrupted. She dropped his wrist, crossing her arms. "I expect you will need some time to detox from your exposure, but it has been a week since we--"

"Doc!" McCree struggled to sit up, but a stab in his abdomen made him groan and collapse back. "Fuck-- Angela, you can't be serious. That stuff-- listen, they said I gotta keep taking it. Ain't a choice."

"You're right," Angela said. "You are following your doctor's orders at this point. Your pain medication will do a great deal to mitigate the side effects of withdrawal, but the recovery process will be rather difficult regardless."

He stared at her. "Angela."

"Jesse. I am speaking as your doctor and your friend." She extended her hand to rest gently on his shoulder. "This is for the best. That system is a liability at the best of times."

"You don't understand. It's the only thing keeping my hand steady. I can't shoot without it." The admission stung, and McCree saw a shadow cross Angela's face.

"That isn't so. You weren't reliant on these drugs when we met. Your ability is--"

"That was years ago, Angie!" Frustration rose in McCree's chest. "You can't-- you wouldn't ruin me like this!"

Angela drew her hand back. "Jesse, I'm doing what's best for you. Whatever you think now, whatever you have to relearn” She paused. “I'm doing what's best."

\--------------------------

The first night just felt endless. The medication Angela gave him left him dull, but at least it cut the pain. There was a gnawing something beyond that, though, that McCree could feel creeping in, growing more insistent. Before, he'd been able to ease such feelings by refreshing the fluid in his system, recharging it with nanites and soothing the ache.

By noon the next day he was sweating, anxious and full of an energy and drive he couldn't discharge. He wanted to go to his room and inject his own damn self, but even getting to the bathroom and back required assistance so he knew he wouldn't get far. Boredom meant that he was stuck in a steady loop of vicious, desperate thoughts of doing something, anything to end the craving.

Angela had removed the ports for his needles during her surgery, he realized as his hands smoothed over the clean white bandages on his stomach. Even if he had an undamaged apparatus he wouldn't be able to get what he needed.

Reinhardt came by on the evening of his second day awake, bringing books and a deck of cards and endless apologies. It had been over a week since the incident, but Reinhardt's eyes had dark circles under them and McCree knew he was not taking it well. He tried to assuage as much guilt as he could, but did get a promise out of him to keep bringing him more entertainment so he would at least have something to do.

Once he was gone, taking distraction with him, McCree couldn't make himself focus on the books and his hands were shaking too much to shuffle the cards. He ended up lying on his side, trying not to think unkind thoughts about the man who had only made a mistake.

Angela came by several times every day, and when she couldn't be there her nurses were perfectly skilled and attentive. The symptoms only got worse and by the fourth day McCree was curled tight under the thin blanket of his hospital bed, too nauseous to have any interest in the food they brought. His muscles ached in a way the medication didn't even touch.

When he could sleep, his dreams were filled with sense-memories of needles slipping into his ports and the taste of the fluid as it had come up his throat. He'd never tasted it before, but now he fixated on it like getting it in his mouth would somehow solve the nagging hunger for it that seeped into his bones.

And Angela was smug, damn her. McCree was irritable and harsh whenever they spoke and it infuriated him even more to know that she would meet his sniping with nothing but calm, patronizing smiles. She thought she knew what was best for everyone, and fuck what they wanted. The concoction hadn't been causing any damage. Hell, it made him stronger, quicker, steadier. Just look at the way his hands shook now when he tried to do so much as lift a glass of water. Holding Peacekeeper straight would be nearly impossible.

Tears would do nothing, but they came despite McCree's best efforts. He managed to limit them to when he was alone, unable to be still on the bed and gritting his teeth against a wayward sound. It hurt in a way that made him want to rip at his skin just to feel something that wasn't the need. Giving in would have been easy if his body wasn't still wrecked from Reinhardt's blow. He would have done it in a heartbeat.

He took to agitating the IV in his hand just to feel the sting and have something else to focus on. Angela seemed confused by the irritation it caused around the entry point, but she never caught him at it and it was the only distraction that really caught him for any amount of time. He dreamed of the bags of saline and pain meds turning the bright, grassy green of his fluid and pouring into him again, making the agony finally ease.

Angela was ready to offer comfort the moment he asked, her voice gentle and questions open-ended, but McCree had taken all his anger and frustration with the situation and poured it out in her direction. It wasn't fair, of course, but he was too full of vitriol to do anything else. Someone needed to be the target.

The need for a friend was almost as powerful as his need for the drug. Lena came by a few times, but he couldn't dump this on her and begged tiredness until she would go away.

Reinhardt kept good on his promise to bring more books, though what he brought almost always went unread. His guilt was almost tangible and McCree had little patience to keep combatting it. He started pretending to be asleep, though keeping his tense muscles from twitching long enough for the ruse proved difficult.

Genji came by with his omnic shadow and though his calm was almost infuriating, it was diverting enough to listen to the pair of them talk about nothing important. The monk's suggestion of meditation was met with a laugh, but McCree took it as kindly as it was intended and thanked him anyway.

Others visited too, but none were close enough to him to ease his burden. Fareeha came nearest, sitting with him for an hour while he sweated through a particularly difficult period of craving, but when she asked what was wrong he just said that the doctor had started to reduce his morphine and it was wearing off around the edges. Whether she believed him or not, she didn't push. She had always been like a little sister to him and he didn't want to suddenly lean on her for the support she was supposed to expect from him. Of course, they were all adults now but some things never changed.

Angela claimed the first week would be the worst, but the eighth day came and went without any less pain. It came in spasms, the need ebbed and flowed, and Angela really did start reducing his medication as his wounds began to heal. It wasn't by much but it was more than enough to make him long for the speedier regeneration that his fluid had granted him.

That night, as McCree was working his way back from the bathroom, he realized that if he could move that far, he could probably push himself farther. His quarters weren't that distant-- just one elevator ride and then a walk down the hall. It wasn't as if he was trying to do sit-ups-- he could go slow and take breaks and he'd reach his room (and his stash of fluid) within a half hour.

It occurred to him that Angela might have cleaned out his supplies, but he shoved the idea from his head. She wouldn't dare, and from what he could tell the entirety of her method seemed to be confining him away from temptation. The need came with him wherever he went, though, and he turned his body down the hall, shuffling forward foot by foot.

He had to pause outside the elevator, panting and pressing a hand to his stomach where the incision was aching. It would ease as soon as he reached his room, though. The healing would speed up and the pain would fade. The promise of a fix had him almost dizzy with relief and he jabbed the call button with his thumb repeatedly until the doors swished open.

The hallway leading to his quarters seemed to go on forever. There were a few lights on under the doors he passed even at this late hour, but he kept his pace steady and paid them no mind. Few enough people would be out and about, and they'd have no reason to stop him from going to his own room.

McCree's heart raced as he turned the corner and walked up to his door. The thumbprint scanner blinked green and the bolt disengaged, allowing him access. Someone had come through and straightened the room a bit in his absence-- probably whoever had come and grabbed him clean underwear for his stay in the infirmary. His hat was sitting neatly on the pillow of his bed and he stumbled over to sit down with a groan, breathing hard. He was so, so close. As soon as he recovered he'd be able to dig under the bed for his lockbox and get what he needed.

Desperation warred with exhaustion in his chest, but he finally slid off the bed and onto his knees. The contortion it took to grab the metal case made his stomach wound grow wet and bloody under the bandages, but he finally dragged it out, clunking noisily against the bedframe.

The combination was the same he'd used on his locker in high school and he opened the case carefully so as not to jostle the vials in their padding. There it was, green and very faintly luminous, and McCree let himself trace a finger over one of the glass tubes slowly.

How was he going to get it in his system? The thought hadn't occurred to him before this moment. If he'd grabbed a needle from the infirmary he might have been able to inject it, but getting back there now seemed like an insurmountable task. If he couldn't get it intravenously, then what?

Ideas rushed through his head, desperate and fleeting. He could split a vein open, pour it, hope that his body absorbed enough. Or, he could use the throbbing wound on his belly-- he just needed it inside him. Swallowing it might work well enough for the time being. It would get him back to the infirmary with the case and he knew where Angela kept her hypodermics.

It took two tries to get a grip on the twist-top of the vial with his shaking hand, and as soon as it was open he brought it to his mouth. The stuff was cooler than the fluid that had come up after being inside him but still tasted sweet and thick as he forced it down in a few rough gulps.

When he had injected a new supply it had always made him feel better at once, but this sat heavy in his stomach, threatening to make him heave. He didn't even know if the nanites would survive the acid of his gut and make it to his bloodstream, but it was all he had. He downed a second vial, gagging slightly, then tossed aside the empty glass and closed the case again.

Back to the infirmary, then. He'd know by the time he got there if drinking it had given him any of the benefit he needed. Getting up off the floor was a struggle and when he glanced down at his front he saw a dark spot starting to soak through his t-shirt. Shit. Well, once he got that injection he'd--

"Jesse?" It was the last voice he wanted to hear. Angela stood in sweatpants and an old raglan sleeve shirt that hung off her shoulder. McCree winced, trying to shift the case behind his leg, but her eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here? You should be in bed!"

"Listen, doc, before this gets out of hand I just wanna say a man's got a right to do what he--"

"Jesse!" Angela stormed forward, and despite her small frame and pajamas, the rage rolling off her was palpable. "You came back for that-- that poison?"

"It's not poison!"

"Give it to me!" Angela grabbed for the case in McCree's hand and he couldn't quite twist to get out of her reach in time. She jerked it from his weakened grasp, backing away before he could try and take it back. "I'm destroying this!"

"It's not your choice to make, Angela!" McCree shouted, trying to be intimidating as he stepped towards her. He had to press a hand to his stomach, though, and Angela didn't flinch. "You don't get to choose what I do with my life!"

"What, are you going to run again? Find someone else to enable you?" Angela's shouting and his replies had roused some of the people down the hallway and a door opened off to the left. "I'm not letting you give up on your life again!"

"It's not about that!" McCree felt woozy as he tried to make a grab for the case.

"Is everything okay?" someone yelled from down the hall.

"No!" Angela called back. "My patient needs to be taken back to the infirmary and--"

"I'm not going back there!" McCree said, grabbing the doorframe to keep himself upright. He was looming over Angela, panting, and she tossed the case down behind her to step in and grab his arm.

"Jesse, you're hurting yourself," she said, voice suddenly much softer. "Let's go back and you can lie down. I can get you more medicine to help manage the symptoms of your withdrawal."

"Already got it back in me," McCree replied, voice fierce. That would show her.

"What?"

"Swallowed it." At the mention of that, McCree's stomach roiled as if remembering what he'd forced it to endure.

"You what? Idiot! You're damn lucky it won't do any damage!" Angela tucked herself up under Jesse's arm, scowling darkly. "It won't do you any good, either. Your stomach will break down the nanites before they reach your bloodstream."

McCree slumped, making Angela stumble slightly. He didn't want to believe her, but she had no reason to lie about this. After all that, he hadn't even gotten what he needed.

"Jesse! Stand up, walk--" Angela grumbled something in German, but she suddenly seemed very distant. McCree was tired, too tired to deal with this. A slightly more frantic note came into Angela's voice. "Jesse?"

The ground came up to meet him suddenly, hard and unforgiving, and as darkness seeped in from the edges of his vision he could see a dozen or so faces turned towards him from down the hall.

\--------------------------

When McCree woke, light was streaming in through the window and the curtains around his hospital bed were wide open. For a moment he thought he was alone, then he spotted Lena across the room, curled up on a chair with her legs drawn to her chest. There was a blanket thrown over her, but it had slipped down off her shoulders to drape across her knees.

The sound of him stirring made her come awake and turn towards him, face knit with a concern he hated to see there. Even the pain throbbing in every muscle seemed insignificant next to the knowledge that he'd burdened her with worry.

"Jesse," she said, straightening and letting the blanket slide to the floor. "How are you feeling?"

"Shitty," he mumbled, looking away. "How long have you been here?"

"Since last night," Lena replied, coming over to stand next to the bed. "You were out for a day and Angie wasn't sure when you'd be up."

"You didn't have to do that," Jesse said softly.

"Like hell! Why didn't you ask me to sit with you earlier? Nobody knew it was this bad until she told us yesterday!" Lena put a hand on his knee, gripping the thin blanket tight. "Are you dense? You didn't tell me anything! I didn't even know that stuff was-"

"Lena," McCree said, turning to look at her. Her nose was scrunched up and her lip trembled slightly. He felt his chest clench. "I'm sorry."

"Damn right you're bloody sorry! We're not leaving you alone again! We're taking shifts-- Me 'n' Fareeha ‘n’ Genji too! I asked Reinhardt but he's sure you don't want to see him." Lena swallowed hard. "Don't you dare argue with me!"

McCree looked down at her fingers on his knee. "I don't want you to see me like this. I'm all fucked up."

"Well whoop de do! We're going to be here whether you like it or not. If you think you're going to go it alone, you're stupid, love." She sighed heavily, then hooked her chair with her ankle, dragging it close to the edge of the bed. "We're here for you."

"Then get me a way to inject myself again," McCree said plaintively. "I don't think you folks get it. I ain't gonna be able to fight anymore."

Lena slipped her hand into his, squeezing lightly. "Jesse, you're our friend. Doesn't matter whether you're in fighting shape or not."

McCree tilted his head back to ease the stinging in his eyes. "You're bein' sappy."

"You almost died! We've buried enough friends without you digging yourself a hole." Lena stood from her chair, leaning over to press a kiss to McCree's temple. He squeezed her hand. "I want to keep you here. Whatever that takes."

"You don't gotta babysit me..." McCree shook his head, breathing out hard.

"We're not leaving you alone until you're well again. You're going through enough." Lena straightened, then gestured to a canvas tote bag on the counter. "I brought a checkerboard. Angela said distraction would help you wait it out."

McCree considered saying something about how Angela would be like that, but he just let out a slow sigh instead. "Thank you, Lena."

She beamed. "Do you want to play red or back?"

\--------------------------

True to Lena's word, the others took shifts sitting with him over the next few days. Fareeha took over that first evening and brought in a cot from somewhere. When McCree woke from a nightmare, she climbed up onto the slim bed next to him and lay with an arm cradling his head. He'd done the same for her years and years before when her mother was out on missions and there was no one else to hold her hand.

Now, her strong fingers combed through his hair, giving him something to focus on other than the tearing need. Her voice wasn't very sweet, but she picked her way through a melody he remembered her mother singing and it eased the ache enough for exhaustion to find him again.

McCree slept late into the morning, waking only when Angela brought lunch for them both. It was nothing more fancy than reheated canned soup, but it was gentle on his stomach and he kept it down, so it was good enough. Fareeha left around dusk after promising to bring a movie to watch next time and Genji took her spot.

Genji didn't sleep, but McCree was comforted by the sight of him meditating on the cot whenever he was roused from his own rest. Near morning, McCree found himself awake and Genji brought over a handheld video game for him to play until Angela came with breakfast.

The symptoms really did begin to ease after those first few days, and though there were still nights when everything hurt and he wanted to scream, having someone to lean on made it easier. Under other circumstances, McCree would have hated his own weakness, but there was little he could do about it when he was never given any privacy. Really, it wasn't so bad. Lena always wanted to talk, but Genji and Fareeha were content to just be with him while he tapped away at a video game or read through a book.

Reinhardt sent a card with Lena about a week after they'd started their watch and McCree had lost enough irritability to write a note back asking him to come by. They talked about the books he had brought that McCree had finally read and Reinhardt's laugh was infectious. By the time he excused himself for the evening, he looked a lot less troubled and McCree's stitches were aching from having laughed so much.

Angela declared him safe to go overnight without supervision not long after that, but he still had frequent visitors during the day. It was enough, and as his cravings grew less violent even his anger at Angela died enough that he could talk to her without getting snippy. She seemed relieved, and the next time Fareeha came by she made some offhand remark about how McCree was finally realizing how much he owed her.

"She was really torn up, you know," Fareeha told him, absently flipping through a magazine Reinhardt had left. "She worries about you more than you realize."

The thoughts of the fluid didn't disappear, but they became more manageable. McCree wasn't sure if there was anything stopping him from just going back on it once he was healed and could get the ports implanted again, but for the time being it was tolerable enough to keep the peace and make Angela happy.

After a few days of cajoling, Angela agreed to let him move back to his own room as long as he came in twice daily for check-ins. It was strange to be back in a private space after so long in the infirmary, but the quiet was far from unwelcome. He put on his own clothes, hat and all, and found Peacekeeper right where he'd left her in the locked drawer of his desk. It felt good to have her in his hand again, and he slept with her just at arm’s reach.

As soon as he could the next morning, McCree walked slowly out to the firing range. No one else was up practicing this early, and he loaded his gun with fingers held as steady as he could manage. The ocean scent was strong and he could hear the waves crashing against the rocks off beyond his view.

His first shot went wide, burying itself in the sandy dune behind the targets. It felt almost like he'd been struck himself, fear clenching low in his gut. Maybe on some level he'd hoped it wouldn't make a difference not to have that substance in his veins. He should have known better.

The next three shots drifted closer and the fourth actually hit the edge of the target, ringing loudly as it smacked the metal surface. McCree gritted his teeth, holding his hand as solidly as he possibly could as he took aim with the fifth. It wasn't how it should be-- he needed to be able to pick a moving target out with no preparation-- but it was something as the target tinged, the second row out from the center swinging wildly as his bullet made contact.

It was possible. It could be done. The encouragements his friends had poured into him welled up into the forefront of his mind. It would take work, but what in his life hadn't? They weren't about to throw him out on his ear even if he needed a while to get back up to snuff.

Or, reminded a darker voice, he could just find a needle and solve the problem right away. No one even needed to know, not if he did it right.

Sweat prickled on McCree's forehead as he lined up the sixth shot. Finding a target and shooting it was what he was good for, his only use. If he couldn't do that, maybe it would be better to just leave again and find someplace he could actually do some good.

The shot rang out, and McCree held his blink for a moment longer than he needed to, not sure if he wanted to see. All the air flooded out of his nose as he finally opened them and he lowered Peacekeeper to his side.

Squaring his shoulders, McCree turned and carefully started to load in another six rounds.


End file.
